


House of Cards

by Idioteque



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idioteque/pseuds/Idioteque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been visiting Jim's flat for four weeks. He knows that he wants him and Jim knows it, too. These are the first tentative steps they take into a world they really know nothing about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1 - Go to Sleep

“You need to sleep”

“Hmm?” came the response from the behind the laptop screen, which was glowing with bright white light in the gloom of the sitting room.

“I said, you need to sleep, Jim.”

“Ah”

The endless tapping of the keyboard didn’t stop. There was a long silence as Sherlock waited for a proper response.

“Jim?”

“Hm?” Jim inclined his head in the direction of Sherlock’s chair, but his eyes remained upon the screen.

Sherlock tipped his head back in his armchair and let a long breath out through his nose, clenching his fingers into the worn brown leather of the arms. Stay calm.

“What are you working on?”

“It’s um….I… I’m programming.” Jim’s voice was low; the words were slow and quiet.

“Still? You’ve been programming since Monday”

“What? Today’s Monday. Or Tuesday. I’m not entirely sure. What time is it?” The tapping stopped briefly, but Jim’s drooping eyes continued to flick impossibly fast over whatever he was working on.

“It’s 4:17am. On Thursday morning, Jim.”

“Is it?” Jim sounded genuinely surprised. “Have you been here since Monday?”

“Mostly.”

“Why?”

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond to that. Jim knew the answer anyway. 

“Because I wanted to be, I suppose.”

“Because you want to know what i’m programming?” The tone of Jim’s voice had shifted slightly from the exhausted monotone to one that seemed to be tinged with a childlike bashfulness.

“You know that’s not why I’m here. Of course, if you want to tell me all about your work on supersymmetric quantum mechanics, then I will be happy to listen. After you’ve been to sleep.”

Jim’s eyes finally left his laptop to meet Sherlock’s. He lifted himself slightly in his chair, a crooked smile adorning his stubble coated face. “Clever boy! I could teach you about it, you know. It’s fairly simple. Even with your pitiful knowledge of the Universe. I’ve think I’ve spotted an inconsistency in-”

“Yes, yes, you can teach me all about it. When you’ve had some sleep. The sun is going to rise in 24 minutes. You should make the most of the darkness.” Sherlock rose from his chair and stepped toward its twin, where Jim had been slumped for the last 77 hours, give or take a few trips to the loo and the kitchen.

“But I haven’t finished!” Jim sounded panicky, his eyes moved back to his work and there was a split second as he resumed his previous train of thought and his fingers began to fly across the keys once more.

“I’m going to count to ten, Jim, and then i’m shutting the computer down – I don’t care if you haven’t finished, so you’d better press save quickly. One.”

“Just fuck off and leave me alone, will you?”

“Two.” Sherlock took a step towards Jim, reaching an arm out ready to snap the laptop shut.

“No, Sherlock, wait, I-“

“Three.” Sherlock stepped slowly nearer to Jim, keeping his voice gentle, as one would when trying to coax a particularly irritable child into taking their afternoon nap.

Jim typed frantically, sitting bolt upright in his chair, his left leg beginning to bounce up and down with frantic energy. Sherlock’s eyes flicked down to the worn grey t-shirt that was hanging lopsidedly off Jim’s right shoulder, the light from the computer casting long shadows over his prominent collarbone. Sherlock wondered if Jim would sleep in the shirt. Or whether he wore pyjamas. Or perhaps he slept naked. Sherlock’s mind went blank for a second, before he remembered the task at hand. He’d never find out what Jim slept in if he never got him to go to bed.

“Four. Five. Six. Seven”

Jim glanced up to find Sherlock standing two feet away from his chair looking at him expectantly, and sighed.  
“Fine, fine, I’ll press save. Hang on a second.”

His fingers stretched to press the shortcut on the keyboard and after a short whir of machinery, the computer screen went black. The room was now lit only by the ever present glow of the city’s lights.

“Good. Well done.” Sherlock said. His naive attempts to keep a frequently volatile Jim calm were generally not warmly received. And sometimes he wasn’t sure whether he was just being intentionally condescending when faced with Jim’s petulant moods.

“Don’t patronise me, Sherlock, I’m not a fucking child. You’ve got your way, I’ll go to sleep.” Jim sank back down in his chair, his elbows moved to rest on the arms of the chair and he cradled his face, his eyes closed, in his hands. Sherlock thought about Jim’s hands quite often. They were gentle - delicate, even. Small. Sherlock’s mind would focus on them when Jim was talking passionately about something, his hands gesturing wildly. Sherlock would think about how small they looked in comparison to his and how strongly Jim’s fingers would cling to his when their hands finally touched.

Sherlock was woefully ignorant in the ways of domesticity, and half considered abandoning his gentle attempts to take care of Jim (was that what he was doing? Taking care of him?) in favour of just grabbing his arm and dragging him to the bedroom down the hall.  
But something in Sherlock’s mind told him that their first touch shouldn’t be the result of anger or frustration. It was something they both had to prepare for; a mutual choice with full recognition of the consequences. For, as inexperienced as Sherlock was, he was fully aware that there would be consequences and the very thought of it made flames of excitement lick hotly at his heels.

Jim hadn’t moved. His breathing was deep and even. 

“Not here.”

“Hmm?” Jim had slipped back into monotonous grunts.

“You can’t sleep here Jim, you’ll crick your neck, get a migraine and be a fucking pain in the arse. You need proper sleep, in a bed, or you’re going to start hallucinating again, you know that eighty hours is your limit before they really start to kick in.”

“Maybe I am already hallucinating,” Jim’s words were slurred now, and his fingers were beginning to twitch as his body fell rapidly towards unconsciousness. “Maybe I’m imagining that there’s an obnoxious amateur detective trying to sneak his way into my bed under the pretence of babysitting. Is that why you’re here? Has big brother been nagging you to have a poke through my hard drive? He knows that you come here.” contempt tinged his rough voice.

There was a pause.

“He knows why you come here, too.” The sentence was dark and taunting.

“I’m not babysitting you, Jim, I am trying to help.” Sherlock ignored the slight about Mycroft. Jim was tired and even this slight loss of control, being given instructions instead of issuing them, was frightening him.

“I see that dear John’s bedside manner is rubbing off on you. Four weeks of you sitting in my flat staring at me isn’t quite enough to undo a lifetime of solitary habits I’m afraid, Sherlock. I’ll sleep for a bit, I don’t care where, wake up and keep working. It’s what I do. You don’t have to sit here and watch.”

The four weeks he’d spent sitting with Jim, mostly in companionable silence, had taught Sherlock more about him than he was expecting. He didn’t know why he was surprised, as Jim was just as human as he was. But the knowledge that he gained about Jim was never enough – the way he would rub his nose when he was thinking, the fact that his laughter was loud, unexpectedly joyful and seemed to emanate from every pore of his body. The way he would lick his lips and try to pretend that he wasn’t smiling when he caught Sherlock looking at him. All of it, even the most mundane of Jim’s actions made the hairs on Sherlock’s arms stand up, his heart speed and his mouth go dry. He wanted to tell Jim about them, tell him how much pleasure Jim gave him merely by existing. He wasn’t sure that Jim was ready to relinquish control over the situation yet and hear those words before he set out the parameters of their relationship, so he settled instead for trying to coax Jim back from the more dangerous edges of the rocky cliffs of his mind, making sure that he wasn’t going to slip over the edge quite yet.

Or jump.

“But you’ll be more comfortable in a bed, surely” Sherlock’s voice faltered as he recognised the superficiality of his own argument. He’d been obsessing over Jim’s bed since his first visit to the flat when he had turned up at his door unannounced four weeks ago. The door to the room that he presumed was Jim’s bedroom was always shut. He wanted to know how soft Jim’s bed was, what colour the sheets were, whether Jim felt the cold at night and curled up under a thick duvet or if he was more inclined to sleep a hot, restless sleep under a thin sheet. He wanted to know what scent lingered on the pillowcases and what books adorned his bedside table.

Jim stared at him from between his fingers. Black orbs analysing and calculating.

“Okay, Sherlock. I’ll make you a deal. I will drag myself out of this chair and go and sleep in my bed on one condition. Can you guess what it is?” The playful tone was laced with something Sherlock couldn’t quite place.

Sherlock matched Jim’s fierce gaze.

“Yes.”

Something akin to triumph flashed though Jim’s tired eyes. “Good. Well that saves us quite the awkward game of twenty questions. Come along then, darling, I know that you’ve been dying to see it.” With considerable effort, Jim hauled his lithe frame out of his chair and took a few seconds to find his centre of gravity, steadying his exhausted body.

Sherlock didn’t question how Jim knew, because Jim knew everything. Sherlock hadn’t yet found the time to think about why he found that so immensely comforting.  
“Follow me, follow me,” Jim muttered, almost as if to himself as he walked unsteadily to the door and into the hallway. Sherlock stared at him for a moment before following wordlessly, walking slowly behind Jim. His t-shirt was still lopsided and Sherlock focused his own tired eyes upon the small freckle on the back of Jim’s shoulder. He wondered what it would feel like to run his tongue over it. He wondered whether Jim would giggle and push him away, or whether he would grab him and demand more.

Jim walked down the hall, running the tips of his fingers down the wall to steady himself as he went. His bare feet were unexpectedly loud on the wooden floorboards and the clicking of Sherlock’s shoes echoed off the blank walls.

Sherlock’s stomach twisted. The slow procession finally arrived at the pine door at the far end of the hall. Jim glanced over his shoulder, looking slightly surprised to find that Sherlock was still there, standing patiently behind him. They held eye contact for a good five seconds before Jim reached for the doorknob and opened the door.

Jim flicked the light switch and stepped inside. Sherlock stood in the doorway, drinking in the room that had occupied his mind in a way normally only achieved by the most unsolvable of cases. He was, or perhaps he wasn’t, surprised to find that it was much like the rest of Jim’s flat.

“This isn’t where I actually live,” Jim had told him on his third visit, as they had sat at the small kitchen table, two mismatched glasses of wine sitting untouched in front of them, the situation almost farcical in its attempt at normality. “So don’t waste your time analysing the furniture or the amount of dust on the picture rails.” Sherlock had known that, of course, but was fascinated all the same. Small splashes of the colours of Jim’s real personality were beginning to appear upon the flat’s blank canvas. A newspaper clipping torn out and left upon the table, a worn jumper heaped in a chair or a record lying on the ground by the turntable. Sherlock loved it and drank it all in greedily.

Jim was standing in his room, leaning heavily against the door.

“What? Are you waiting for a written invitation?” He smirked. His voice dropped an octave and growled huskily. “Please, lover, do come in.”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked through the door, pulling it gently from Jim’s grasp and closing it behind him.

“I just wanted to make sure that there hadn’t been a… misunderstanding.”

“Have we ever misunderstood each other, Sherlock? I can’t ever recall that happening. That’s the reason you’re here isn’t it? One of them anyway.” his eyes glanced down to Sherlock’s crotch and then returned to his face. “Because I’m the only one who understands.” It wasn’t really a question and so Sherlock said nothing.  
A fairly small, unmade double bed was pushed into the corner of the room up against the wall. A bedside table, pine to match the door and the bedframe, stood beside it, from which a lamp emitted a dull yellow glow. Sherlock could see a large stack of books piled up against the table, and more books lay scattered on the floor by the side of the bed upon a worn woollen rug. He felt excitement shoot through him like an electric shock. Apart from the bed and the table, the only other furniture in the room was an ornate oak wardrobe and a desk and rickety wooden chair, which were placed in front of the large window where a thick, deep red velvet curtain hung.  
The bedding was white, Sherlock noted, and the duvet was thick.

“Just as you’d fantasised?” Jim asked him, his hands struggling with the fastening of his trousers before they dropped to the floor and he stepped out of them, walking with uncoordinated feet towards the bed. He rearranged the pillows so that there was one on each side and clambered in. “Do you want the left side or the right?”

“Um,” Sherlock faltered, toeing his shoes off and wondering what appropriate sleeping attire he could fashion out of the suit he was wearing. He attempted courtesy. “I don’t mind, what side do you normally take?”

“I don’t, I normally just sprawl out across the middle. I am not accustomed to sharing beds. But you’re special. So you get to choose.”

“I’ll take the right.” Easy escape if something goes wrong, and access to Jim’s books if it doesn’t.

Jim nodded and shuffled himself into the corner of the bed. He flopped down onto his pillow and sighed deeply.

“Sherlock.”

“Yes, Jim?”

"Take your fucking suit off and get into bed.”

Sherlock smiled and removed his suit, shirt and socks, dropping them onto the floor to join Jim’s trousers. He liked the look of their clothes lying tangled together on the floor. He stood awkwardly for a second before striding across to the bed and getting in, worming his body down the mattress until his head rested upon the pillow.

“You aren’t wearing much” Jim’s faint voice came from behind a wall of duvet.

“You told me to take my fucking suit off, so I did. I don’t have anything else with me, and I didn’t exactly plan for a ‘sleepover’ when I left my flat.”

Jim’s dark eyes appeared from behind the pile of duvet, warm with humour and dark with something else. “Oh, Sherlock, we both know that’s not quite true.”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “You’re still wearing your t-shirt.”

“I get cold.”

Sherlock couldn’t accept why such a banal piece of information made his chest clench.

Sherlock didn’t touch people often – not as himself anyway. The characters he played often shook hands, sometimes comforted and even hugged, but Sherlock himself did not often willingly engage in physical contact. He knew that Jim was much the same. But he wanted to touch Jim, especially right now, when he could feel the heat of his body a mere foot from his, with his head resting on a pillow which Sherlock now knew smelt of cotton, dust and something slightly spicy like cardamom.

But it still wasn’t quite the time. Unspoken words hung thickly in the air like heavy rainclouds, threatening to split open and drench them both. Sherlock watched Jim, lying curled on his left side facing Sherlock, his eyes closed, his face blank and relaxed. There would be no discussion tonight, no touching, no teasing. So Sherlock pulled his side of the thick duvet up over his shoulders and pressed his face into the pillow, gazing at the small lump of duvet in which Jim was cocooned.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Turn out the light, please.”

Sherlock turned over and fiddled with the lamp until he found the switch and plunged the room into the dark grey light of the early dawn. He settled back down onto his pillow, noticing that Jim had shifted slightly closer to him whilst he was distracted.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, Jim?”

There was a long silence.

“Goodnight”

Sherlock smiled into his pillow. “Goodnight.”


	2. A Wake Up Call

There was no clock in Jim’s room. In fact, Sherlock couldn’t remember seeing a clock anywhere in the flat – even the displays on the microwave and oven flashed blankly at 00:00, leaving Jim’s flat suspended in a kind of timeless orbit where days could pass in a mere second. Of course, Sherlock could easily tell the time by the shadows creeping across the walls or by the levels of traffic on the roads outside, but he preferred to forget that time was passing when he was with Jim.

Sherlock had been awake for approximately 36 minutes. Jim was still out cold, breathing deeply and evenly, curled in a foetal position on his left side facing Sherlock. The room was bathed in the deep red glow of light fighting its way through the thick curtain covering the large window. Sherlock was lying on his back, staring at the cornicing on the ceiling, mulling over the previous evening’s events. Or morning’s events, he thought, as it could only have been 6 hours since they had crawled into Jim’s soft bed at nearly 5am. He hadn’t slept much, he was far too aware of the unfamiliar feeling of having another body in his bed, starting at each movement and sleeping sigh that came from Jim’s small form. Jim had fallen straight to sleep and hadn’t woken once. He was either lying about not being accustomed to sharing beds or Sherlock’s presence next to him was not something that unsettled him. Sherlock analysed that thought for a moment.

He’d noticed very quickly that Jim was not afraid of physical closeness when it came to him. He hadn’t seen Jim interact with other people enough to ascertain whether it was another of Jim’s behaviours adapted especially to him. No matter how close Sherlock was, he didn’t flinch or try to back away, as though he didn’t register the connotations or risks of such invasions of his personal space. Or perhaps he had become so used to them in a previous life that he had simply overridden the human instinct to shy away. Sherlock would ask him about it. Jim would be evasive. Or maybe he would tell him a story. Sherlock liked it when Jim told him stories, although he didn’t like how more often than not, they made his throat throb and his hands clench into angry fists. He wondered what mood Jim would wake up in today.

He understood that he and Jim were both susceptible to vagaries of the mind although they stemmed from different roots. Sherlock’s were generally related to external stimuli – cases, puzzles and experiments. If they did not go his way, or there was a lack of stimulation from them then Sherlock would be restless, angry, unsettled and easily provoked into unnecessary acts of destruction purely for the sake of his own amusement. Jim’s generally came from internal sources. A stray thought spiralling out of control and wreaking havoc, or a memory floating up and shattering the calm and clear surface of the water. Unnecessary acts of destruction were also a rare fall-back of Jim’s but he used them not for entertainment, but to try and regain a semblance of control over something. Sherlock’s fluctuations were, in comparison, easily dealt with. Jim’s were impossible to remedy.

Sherlock leant over, picked up the nearest book from the pile on Jim’s bedside table and squinted at the title in the low light. Being and Time. Sherlock smiled and placed it back on the table. At least he’s not reading it in fucking German, he thought. He picked up the next from the pile. The Bible. Interesting. He flicked through the heavy black book, and saw tiny cramped notes scribbled in the margins, highlighted passages, torn out pages and rough sketches in pen that had sometimes ripped through the thin paper. He picked Being and Time back up and flicked through it. Sure enough, there was hardly a page left untouched – although Jim’s annotations in this book were done in pencil. Sherlock smiled again, settling down to decipher Jim’s frantically scrawled notes.

“I quite like that particular work of Heidegger’s. Riddled with problems of course, as all things are, but it hold various tokens of mild interest nonetheless. I thought that it merited pencil rather than pen.” Jim’s sleepy voice came from the pillow to Sherlock’s right.

Sherlock tried not to act surprised. He hadn’t noticed Jim slipping back into the world of consciousness. “And this?” Sherlock said, holding up the Bible. Jim yawned and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“If as much thought had gone into that ‘book’ as into Heidegger’s, then the world would perhaps be a slightly easier place to exist in. For some, anyway. Pen.”

“And the notes are – what, your corrections?”

“Corrections, notes on inconsistencies or just notes in general, ideas for developing particular themes… anything that comes into my head. I have so many ideas that I find it necessary to write them down as soon as they hit me to make room for new ones. Writing it in the book seems like the logical place to do it or i’d drown in paper within days.”

Sherlock nodded. He often did the same thing, though he was more inclined to scribble on whatever was available at hand. Newspapers, tables, walls, Mycroft’s degree certificates. 

“Interesting choices for bedtime reading. Searching for answers, Jim?” His tone was gentle yet teasing. He hadn’t considered that Jim might actually be interested in the exploration of the concept of what it meant to be alive. Not that it meant anything, obviously. But Jim of all people knew that.

“Aren’t we all?” He drawled mockingly. “I thought that was one of the uniting themes of existence. Or whatever that ‘we’re all in it together’ bullshit is that society tries to plant in our heads. I don’t sleep much and depending on my mood, it can be a way to pass the time. Don’t tell me that you’ve never thought about it. With your mind.”

“Only briefly, at University. The Chemistry course I took wasn’t nearly challenging enough to hold my full attention. I read all the books in the college library, had lots of angry discussions with my vapid fellow students in pubs and decided very quickly that my time was better used in the pursuit of science and immediate results. I find it much more stimulating and rewarding.”

Jim had lowered the white cloud of duvet he was wrapped in to watch Sherlock talk. He smirked.

“Ah, Sherlock Holmes, too brilliant for the most ancient and pure form of mental masturbation.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I thought that mathematics was your particular area of interest, not philosophy.”

“What an obtuse statement. Mathematics and philosophy are alike in many ways. Sometimes I like staring at words instead of numbers, I like seeing whether they offer anything more. Though such study has very rarely revealed to me things I didn’t already know or understand. And of course, you and I both know that there’s no real meaning to anything. Anyway, it’s very boring to be the most brilliant mind in your subject of choice – there is nobody to challenge you. There’s not even anybody capable of praising you for your work. It’s very lonely. I can write all the papers I like, but nobody has the ability to really see what I’m seeing, no matter how clearly I explain it. That’s why I like you, Sherlock. You’re like me. You have potential.”

“Potential?” Sherlock spat, contemptuously.

“Yes. Potential. I think in some respects you’re not quite there. But you will be. Perhaps you’ll be even more brilliant than me. It wouldn’t surprise me if you were.”

“Is that a compliment? I can’t decide whether you’re trying to give me a bizarre confidence boosting pep-talk or are just being a patronising wanker. Whichever it is, I don’t think this is quite what is meant by ‘pillow talk’, James.”

“Like you know what pillow talk is. Explaining in intimate and sordid detail your catalogue of tobacco ash?” Jim crooned. “And I am certainly not trying to ‘boost’ your confidence, your ego is taking up most of the bed space as it is.”

“Would you like me to leave?”

“No.”

There was a pause. Jim shuffled a bit under the duvet and plumped up the pillow a little underneath his head. He kept his calm and intense eyes upon Sherlock.

“I like it when you say my full name, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Don’t use my last name, we’re not at work.”

Jim chuckled. “Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective to Her Majesty The Queen. Practically naked… in my bed.”

“If you were capable of just putting the computer away for long enough so that you don’t fall into a fucking coma, then I wouldn’t have had to coax you into bed.“

“You didn’t coax me, I came quite willingly once you figured out what it was that I was waiting for. And don’t you dare try and make me out to be the only one with the problem, Sherlock. Last Wednesday you spent 19 solid hours staring at pollen species on a computer screen. You didn’t move once. Pollen!”

“Do you have cameras in my flat?”

“Yes. Are you really surprised by that?”

“Where?”

“Everywhere. I especially enjoy watching you shower.”

“Oh for fucks sake.” Sherlock couldn’t tell if Jim was joking.

“If it’s any consolation, I haven’t used them since you started coming to see me.”

“No, that’s no consolation at all.”

Sherlock pushed himself up into a sitting position; his irrational annoyance with Jim’s irritatingly genial persona this morning was not helped by the fact that he himself was beginning to suffer the effects of several sleepless nights. The thick duvet was becoming stiflingly hot in the small room and he pushed it away hoping that cool air would calm his temper. He didn’t want to be angry with Jim, but he was having difficulty analysing what exactly was happening. Jim knew something he didn’t, or was at least waiting for something. Something that Sherlock hadn’t quite discerned yet, and the desire to finally solve the mystery and regain complete control of the situation was becoming a source of great frustration to him. He heaved a heavy sigh, began to think about coffee and his thoughts began to settle a little though they still sparked and hummed frantically in the background. But that never stopped. Would he and Jim have breakfast together? What an amusingly domestic idea; perhaps they could coo over the marriage announcements in the paper together. He wondered who would shower first. He hadn’t looked through Jim’s bathroom yet, and was keen to gather more information about the man through any mundane method he could. He wondered whether Jim would shave the 5 days of patchy stubble growth off. Sherlock rather liked the messy, unkempt look that Jim fell into when he wasn’t ‘working’. His hair looked soft and inviting sticking up in all directions, with dark locks falling over his pale forehead, even more so now after a night’s sleep. He thought about running his fingers through Jim’s hair and scratching his fingernails against his scalp. He was about to develop the thought of Jim in the shower further when he remembered exactly where he was as he felt a pair of shrewd eyes watching him.

He looked at Jim. Jim was propped up on one elbow, his silly grey t-shirt still pulled lopsidedly against his neck, his eyes lingering on Sherlock’s bare thighs. He felt Sherlock look at him and kept them lingering a moment longer, before meeting his gaze.

“Just as you’d fantasised?” Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow, echoing Jim’s own words from the night before.

Jim laughed. “Almost. Although we haven’t quite reached that stage of our little friendship” he paused, and his eyes travelled down Sherlock’s chest and landed on the waistband of his boxers “… yet.”

Sherlock’s stomach flipped and his crotch tingled.

“But… we will?” His voice came out far rougher than he’d intended.

“Oh I do hope so. I’ve waited ever so patiently.” 

Sherlock’s face must have betrayed the numerous reactions he was having to Jim’s words. He didn’t bother to try and keep his face blank with Jim, there was no point. Jim knew him; could truly hear him, see him, read him, sense his thoughts.

“Don’t worry. It’s not going to happen today. I told you last night; you’re special. So you get to choose. You’ve got a while yet to think about it, decide how…if you want it to happen… maybe ask John for some supplies or advice-” he cut himself off as Sherlock glared at him, grinning fondly at the man sitting beside him.

“Fuck off, Jim.” Sherlock muttered, resisting the urge to punch Jim on the arm.

“I’m just teasing. I know that you’re not as virginal as everyone thinks. Whatever virginal really means.” Jim mused, scratching loudly at the stubble on his cheek.

“Oh, don’t get all philosophical on me again.’ Sherlock spat, rubbing his hands over his face.

Jim was smiling softly, still propped up on his pillow, watching him.

“Why are you so disgustingly cheerful this morning anyway?”

Jim watched him for a minute, before realising that Sherlock really didn’t know.

“Well, Sherlock, the answer to that question is sitting in a pair of too-small boxer shorts next to me in my bed.” He said lightly. His smile faded and his face became serious and almost shy. He continued, his voice quiet and sincere. “You stayed. You could have left while I was sleeping. You could have done anything while I was sleeping – kill me, call Mycroft, rifle through my office… not that you would of course, but you didn’t even get out of bed. And it doesn’t look like you’ve slept either, which means that you were fully aware of all those options and probably many more while I lay next to you, completely defenceless, for hours. You wanted to be here. With me. And that makes me…. I don’t know what that makes me. Warm?” He stopped, chewing absentmindedly on his lip and gazed into the distance as he pondered exactly what Sherlock staying made him feel. His strong emotional reactions to Sherlock were what had made him so fascinating to Jim in the first place. Since the immediate spark of fascination that had lit upon discovering the insufferably precocious child who went to the police about Carl Powers, Jim had followed Sherlock from a distance, watching and waiting, desperate for the next hit of thrilling and seductive excitement that came from the possibility of having found someone like him.

“Would you feel better if you had some coffee?” He asked, eventually.

Sherlock was slightly taken aback by Jim’s openness and he himself felt warmth spread through him at the idea of Jim relishing his presence. Jim. Brilliant, bright, insane Jim had simply wanted him to stay. He wanted to kiss him. He was probably still warm and soft with sleep, smelling like his bed and sweat and Jim. Today had to be the day when they finally touched. Sherlock would take it in any form – a brush of skin-to-skin contact when Jim handed him a mug of coffee, bumping shoulders as they passed each other going in and out of the bathroom. Anything. He had a feeling that Jim was waiting for him to make the first move.

“Coffee would be nice.”

Jim nodded and struggled up into a seated position, kicking the covers away. “You can use the bathroom first and I’ll make some coffee. I’ll be in the sitting room. I want to check on my programming.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed himself heavily off the bed. He turned to look at Jim. He was sitting calmly on the far side of the bed, his cheeks still slightly pink from sleep, his eyes looking large and alert in the dim light. But it was too dark, he couldn’t see them properly. Sherlock walked over to the window and with some effort, pulled the heavy curtain halfway across, letting a stream of daylight into the room. New shadows were cast, others disappeared, colours changed and his mind cleared further. Jim sat still, watching him, his side of the bed still blanketed by the slight shadow of the curtain. His face betrayed no emotion other than the contentment that seemed to have settled into the lines of his skin. Sherlock walked back around to his side of the bed. He paused briefly and re-examined that thought. His side of the bed. The right side. He always ended up there, somehow, as if pulled by some indefatigable force that ignored his internal indifference. Always held safe and sound on the right side, in the light.

He knelt down on the side of the bed and shuffled slowly towards Jim.

“Will you move towards me slightly?”

Jim obeyed, clambering onto his knees to mirror Sherlock’s position. He licked his lips. His eyes were still trained on Sherlock’s. They had always been the first thing Jim sought out when looking at him. Jim wasn’t afraid of eye contact.

The light from the window hit him, shooting beams of sunlight across the dark peaks of his hair, catching upon his eyelashes and turning his eyes from a dark, deep brown into an almost otherworldly mixture of hazel and gold. Sherlock stared into him, his icy eyes, immune to the warmth of the sun flickered rapidly from one eye to the other and he slid his hand forward towards Jim.

Jim understood and he smiled. He made no other movement.

Sherlock glanced down. Jim hands were resting upon his thighs. He reached out and gently placed his right hand on top of Jim’s left. Warm he thought. Small. Strong. Delicate. Smooth. Calm. Electric. He looked at his large hand covering Jim’s smaller one and looked back up to Jim’s face. Jim’s eyes were closed. Sherlock placed his left hand upon Jim’s right. A low electrical current was flowing between their touching skin, beating pulses of heat into their bloodstreams.

Sherlock searched for the pulse in Jim’s neck. He could see it beating quickly, fluttering a delicate rhythm against the pale skin. His own heart was thudding in a way that he had never experienced before, and he could hear its beats whooshing in his ears.

He slowly moved his hands up Jim’s forearms, feeling goose bumps blossom in the wake and anticipation of his touch. He could see the dark hairs on Jim’s arms stand up and traced the constellations of the freckles that were scattered sparsely across Jim’s skin with his fingertips. Jim shivered and Sherlock saw the muscles and tendons in his neck and arms flex for a split second.

Sherlock continued his path up Jim’s arms, leaning closer to him, breathing him in, listening to Jim’s calm breaths and smiling at their complete contrast to the large quantity of physical evidence Sherlock was gathering to tell him of Jim’s true reactions to his touch. He was annoyed that Jim had his eyes closed, though. He would like to be able to see into him.

“Open your eyes, Jim.” His voice came out, quite unintentionally, in a husky whisper.

Jim waited a few seconds before opening his eyes, immediately seeking Sherlock’s. His pupils were blown wide, only a thin sliver of the molten golden-hazel iris could be seen. They were full of hope, gratitude, relief and a desire that hit Sherlock like a punch to the stomach. Sherlock was sure a thousand emotions were streaming from his own, but Jim would be able to read and understand them better than he could. It was becoming rapidly apparent that Jim, although perhaps not particularly experienced in sharing his own emotions, was very deeply attuned to them. Sherlock felt a gentle smile pull at his lips and he slid his hands up further until they were resting on Jim’s shoulders. Fragile. Bony. Strong – again. Warm. Relaxed. He could feel the bump of Jim’s collarbone pushing against his palm and he stroked the thumb of his right hand into the hollow of the bone. Jim sighed.

“Jim, I - ”

Jim shook his head fractionally and then resumed his peaceful stillness.

Sherlock hadn’t really been sure what he as going to say anyway; perhaps he was just looking for permission to continue. It seemed that Jim had granted it.

He slowly moved his right hand until it was resting at the base of Jim’s neck. The skin was hot and the pulse drummed against the surface. Jim stayed still, watching him, although Sherlock could feel him buzzing and burning beneath him, his brain firing and blood racing. His hand moved up again until it was cupping Jim’s jaw, his fingertips brushing past the soft lobe of Jim’s ear until they came to rest in the silky hair at the nape of his neck. Jim hummed so quietly that Sherlock almost didn’t hear it. He brushed his thumb over the flushed cheek, Jim’s stubble scratching deliciously at his skin. Heat was coming off Jim in waves. He raised his other hand to cup the other side of his face, and he saw Jim’s eyes flutter shut once more. He wouldn’t ask him to open them again just yet. He saw Jim’s tongue dart out once more, flicking across his pink lips and Sherlock unconsciously mirrored the action.

His fingertips tightened slightly on the back of Jim’s hot neck and he slowly leant forward, eyes closed, and brushed his lips lightly against Jim’s. He pulled back an inch and felt Jim follow his movement. He leant back and his lips were pressed immediately against Jim’s; this time pressing a longer, hotter kiss upon his lips. He felt Jim press his lips back against his. The kiss broke and they both breathed out and in loudly before leaning in once more. This time Jim had parted his lips, and Sherlock gently sucked his full lower lip between his own, feeling the wet heat of his mouth. He felt Jim’s hands slide up to hold gently onto his waist, the delicate touch causing a shiver to ripple over his back. A soft moan fell from Jim’s throat and Sherlock pushed his lips against Jim’s even harder, his nose pressing into Jim’s warm cheek, feeling Jim move his lips softly against him. They both stilled and their lips parted, their heartbeats thrashing against their rapidly rising and falling chests. Sherlock stayed still, holding Jim’s face in his hands, and Jim’s hands still rested upon his bare waist. Sherlock leant forward again, but this time rested his forehead against Jim’s, a gesture which seemed to be just as intimate at the kiss they had just shared – perhaps even more so. They stayed still, in happy silence.

Jim parted his lips once more, not to kiss, but to speak. A ghost of a whisper.

“Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> So I posted this on Tumblr a while back and my A03 invite just came through so I thought i'd post it here. 
> 
> If you like flailing over domestic!Sheriarty, Jim Moriarty and Andrew Scott then you can find me on Tumblr (tumblr.com/itisnotmytree) where you can witness my predilection for fangirling obnoxiously in my tags. Come and say hello!


End file.
